


All Lives End...

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing, Clothing Porn, M/M, POV the blue dressing gown, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 20:53:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1525277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Come prove to me that you like it, then,” your owner says and together you glide to the jumble of sheets in a corner of the room to perch on top of it. “I’d like to give you a token of my appreciation. That’s good manners, isn’t it? To thank someone when they give you a present?”</p><p>“Sherlock, I said…”</p><p>“I heard what you said perfectly well, Mycroft.” His tone is a little peevish. Your sash is unwound again and swept out of the loops. Holding one end in his right hand he starts winding it around his right wrist first, looping it loosely around the left after. When he’s done he falls back onto the bed, raising his arms above his head so your sash is close to those delectable black curls that eddy on top of it. His weight presses your back panel into the sheets. Thank God they’re a decent thread count at least, even though they’re nothing but plain cotton. But oh, how you cherish the brush of all that glorious skin which now rests on top of you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Lives End...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rifleman_s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rifleman_s/gifts).



> Many, many thanks to the fantastic frozen_delight. Once again she was so kind as to beta one of my whimsies. I can’t thank her enough for all her help and advice. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course.
> 
> Written for the marvellous rifleman_s. She agreed with me on the necessity of a dressing robe fic, and so it came to be.

The first part of your life is nothing but a blur. You vaguely remember a huge hall and big bolts of textiles in all the colours of the rainbow. Then there’s a sharp pain when you are cut apart from the entity you were a part of and the sharp punching of holes into the fragments that, once they’re sewn together, form the whole of you.

Soon after you end up here, among rows of others like you. Some of them are an exact replica of yourself, and you inspect them a little more closely and you decide you like what you find. There’s a certain suave elegance to your colouring, distinctive but not obtrusive, inviting the eye to have a closer look and linger at leisure on the flowing expanse of blue. Now you can see as well as feel that you consist of an exquisite fabric, you admire the satin stripe tumbling down the cloth in glistening ripples and the way the light is reflected of the fibres’ surface, enhancing you and your fellows with an appealing soft glow. 

***

You discover what is your purpose when one day you’re yanked of the hanger and shrugged into with aggressive, sharp motions. Aghast, you shrink back from the sweaty body, clad in a faintly moist cotton, you’re supposed to envelop, except you can’t, it’s too big for you, and there’s an awful stench ready to invade you and you smell so nice…

“That one is too small for you, Geoffrey,” a shrill woman’s voice declares. Before you’re aware what is happening to you, you end up in a heap on the ground, but then the nice, soft hands of the shop assistant pick you up and rearrange you on the hanger and you hear her muted tones, “The larger sizes are over there, sir, madam.”

Back among the others you make yourself as small as possible and take a few deep breaths to regain your composure after the horrifying experience.

***

Time passes and hands fumble and fondle over and over again. Sometimes the hand, which raises your sleeve briefly into the air, only to let it drop the next instant, is encased in leather. Others are lifted and taken from their hangers not to return, but new ones arrive to fill their place. The racks are never empty.

***

One day – you’re dozing a little for life has grown to be a bit dull – the sudden brush of fingers sends a heady little thrill of expectation undulating down your stripes. The fingers rub over you, their pads telling you how much they appreciate the feel of you against their skin, your arm is brought up and held close to a nose and lips and you catch a discreet whiff of the man’s cologne and the faint trace of tea on his breath. You realise it’s tea because it smells almost the same as the shop girl’s after she has returned from what is called her tea, except the bouquet flavouring the air from the man’s mouth is more delicate. 

“This one, I think,” he says, and you can hear the man is used to have his every wish attended to, on the spot. Sure enough, the lovely shop girl is already reaching for the hanger you’re suspended from but she throws you a doubtful glance. This makes you take a good look at the man himself and the moment you do you want to cry with unhappiness for it’s obvious your width isn’t enough to span his girth. You can’t understand he hasn’t noticed this for he’s sartorially dressed in a magnificent suit that fits him like a glove. Even though you know you’re a beaut yourself, you can’t help but cast deferential glances at the luscious charcoal-grey merino wool with its matt-silver pinstripe. Then your eye is drawn to the Maplewood handle of the foxy brolly that’s dangling from the crook of his elbow. Oh, how you’d _love_ to belong to this man.

“It’s for my brother,” he explains. “This is his size.”

“Ah, I understand, sir. Still, we do have a return policy, should your brother not find the item to his liking.” The shop girl’s hands are busy shaking you out before draping you over a flat smooth surface. Next thing you know you’re being folded and arrayed into a box on a bed of silky lilac tissue paper, which is pleated over you with deft movements of her nimble fingers, layer upon layer and layer, like a veil drawn all over you. That’s the last you see of her, for a black square descends onto the box and you suddenly find yourself shut away from the light.

“I’m convinced he’ll like it very much.” You’re relieved to find you can still hear the man’s voice, despite the muffling of the box and all the paper.

“It is indeed a lovely piece. Here you are, sir. Thank you very much.”

You and your prison are lifted and sway through the air together. It’s a tad frightening, not to be resting on a hanger, but still you’re happy to have been chosen by this man. Secretly you wonder what this brother of his will be like.

***

“I won’t be long, James.”

“Yes, sir.”

You’re up in the air again. His leg bumps against the box when he starts walking. You hear a door fall shut and then he’s climbing stairs, lots of them, and you hear him grunt and quietly swear under this breath at all the steps and that makes you want to giggle a bit.

At long last he comes to a halt and there’s the sound of a knuckles rapping against wood.

“Sherlock, open up. I know you’re in there.”

There’s the creak of door hinges in need of grease.

“Mycroft, what on Earth?” Is this the brother? You send a little prayer to the guardian saint of dressing robes for this to be true, for the silken suavity of his voice informs you that you’ll never find another person so eminently suited to wear you. Inside your dark cell you tremble a little. You can’t wait for it to open so you can present yourself, and beguile with your style this person who has already seduced you with his voice.

“Is this a proper state in which to receive visitors?” Your current owner’s displeasure is clear from his tone. Beneath the overlay of disapproval you discern a different sentiment.

“No one ever visits me but you, Mycroft. I was, in fact, thinking of you when you knocked, so I’d say my present attire is entirely appropriate. Or wasn’t that what you were coming for?”

The tone of his voice has dropped considerably during his little speech. He positively purrs the last sentence. Oh, why don’t they _hurry up_ and open the box?

Instead you get a jolt when the box is bumped onto a flat surface. You’re still recuperating from the jar when you hear the sounds. You recognise the rustle of clothing, but there are others as well. Slick, wet sounds, and sighs and moans and hands ghosting over velvety-smooth skin. Lots and lots of it.

A sudden gasp startles you. 

“Sherlock, no! Stop it now. I don’t have much time. I just dropped by to give you a present. One you’re in obvious need off.”

“Exactly, come here. Why do you always have to wear so many clothes, for God’s sake?” The wonderful deep baritone emerges fast and a little breathless. Mycroft’s voice is much more composed when he answers.

“Fraternal compensation, I suppose. But, though flattered by your ardour, I don’t arrive in a pretty box with a bow on top. Here.”

The box is thrust forward. Through its stiff carton and the many layers of tissue paper you feel the heat transmitted by the body into whose hands you’re deposited.

“If you insist,” the stunning voice rumbles close to you. The top is snatched off and you think you’ll faint; you’re so fraught with expectation. Sadly, the many sheets of paper veil your view, but impatient hands tug them out of the way and you get your first eyeful of him.

“Oh, Mycroft. How gorgeous.” You’re whisked out of the box and held in the air while he turns to his brother, and if you could speak you’d echo the words. For the man against whose naked body you’re now swathed _is_ gorgeous, every bit as stunning as his voice, an exquisite creature that bewitches you with his otherworldly beauty. You whisper against his skin to relay how much you treasure him, and to entice him into donning you so you can properly wrap yourself around that sublime torso and flutter graciously down those endless legs.

“Why don’t you put it on?”

 _Oh, yes, yes, yes!_ you urge and you rustle a little in his hands to convey how ready you are to receive him. He pushes a lithe limb through your right sleeve first and then his other one through your left. Your front panels are pulled tight while one hand feels for your sash. Deftly, you plant it into the palm and he binds it into a neat bow on his right side. Delirious pleasure travels to every fibre of your being when you finally can snuggle close against all those cubic inches of warmly glowing skin.

“And?” he asks, simply. You both watch how his sibling’s – Mycroft’s – Adam’s apple bobs up and down in his throat as he swallows.

“I knew it would suit you. The colour brings out the golden flecks in your eyes.”

You want to swell with pride and you’re so happy you think your heart will burst. Together you are beautiful. 

“Come prove to me that you like it, then,” your owner says and together you glide to the jumble of sheets in a corner of the room to perch on top of it. “I’d like to give you a token of my appreciation. That’s good manners, isn’t it? To thank someone when they give you a present?”

“Sherlock, I said…”

“I _heard_ what you said perfectly well, Mycroft.” His tone is a little peevish. Your sash is unwound again and swept out of the loops. Holding one end in his right hand he starts winding it around his right wrist first, looping it loosely around the left after. When he’s done he falls back onto the bed, raising his arms above his head so your sash is close to those delectable black curls that eddy on top of it. His weight presses your back panel into the sheets. Thank God they’re a decent thread count at least, even though they’re nothing but plain cotton. But oh, how you cherish the brush of all that glorious skin which now rests on top of you.

Unfortunately, his wriggling and the loss of your sash force your front panels to relinquish their grip on his body. Their endeavour to remain in place is earnest enough, they make a desperate attempt to cling to his hipbones, which stand out prominently, but they’re helpless against the sleekness of his skin and end up pooling at his sides. 

“However, I invite you to reconsider. Surely no matter of state can be pressing you as hard as the erection straining against the front of your trousers right now?” Involuntarily, you shiver as the muscles of his back reverberate against you while he speaks. How is it possible a voice can be that low, that seductive? This Mycroft must be forged out of steel to be able to resist him. Although you’d rather concentrate on huddling as thoroughly as possible to Sherlock you throw Mycroft a gander nevertheless. Ah, isn’t he a sight to behold as well?

His lips are pursing furiously, and the poor Maplewood of the brolly is having a hard time of it.

“Sherlock,” he keens.

In answer Sherlock trails the arch of his foot along his other leg, slowly. The weight of his buttock shifts over you as his muscles flex. Unexpectedly, he lets his legs fall open and splays them wide in a bold imitation of your front flaps.

Never before have you seen so many garments flying around the room so fast. You chuckle because Sherlock is right, Mycroft is wearing a ridiculous amount of clothes. They’re quickly shed, however, and you brace yourself for the inevitable strain of two bodies resting on top of you.

The sensation is overwhelming and soon you’re lost in the ecstasy of twisting and turning above you, their soft grunts and moans, the slick wet sounds of their kisses, the intoxicating vapour that rises from their heated skin, some of it seeping into your pores. You stretch yourself as wide as possible to embrace all of it – of them – and your arms tremble against Mycroft’s back when Sherlock grips him tight. Suddenly Sherlock’s whole body tenses against you, momentarily you’re worried something is wrong, but you’re soothed by the sound of Mycroft’s voice, crying out in rapturous awe, “Oh God. Yes, Sherlock, that’s it… oh my love.” 

The tension flows from Sherlock’s body, passing through you and into the sheets. Now he’s nothing but bliss personified, and your front panels are gathered to envelop them both. You’d really like to oblige but it’s impossible. You’re very fond of Mycroft, because he’s the one who gave you to Sherlock and he conforms to Sherlock’s every wish, but his body is just too big for you to cover. But no matter, for Sherlock is already pushing against Mycroft and grumbling. “Get off of me, Mycroft, you’re smothering me. Jesus, why do you have to be so fat?”

“If memory serves this was your idea, Sherlock.”

“Yes, I keep forgetting what you’re really like, with those corsets disguised as waistcoats you insist on wearing.”

“Very droll.” You sigh in relief when Mycroft’s weight lifts itself from Sherlock and you. He walks to the sink that’s on the opposite wall, wets a flannel and uses it to swipe over his body. When he’s done he wets another flannel and hands it to Sherlock. 

“Here.” Sherlock accepts it and Mycroft pivots and starts dressing himself. After Sherlock has used the flannel to wipe at the liquid mess solidifying on his stomach he snuffles it and throws it on the floor. He unwinds your sash from his wrist and pulls it through your loops again. He pleats your front panels over his chest and ties another neat bow. You collapse all over him, drowning in the torrent of heat and odours emitted by his body. Delicately, he brings up his arm and sniffs at you, the plush flesh of his lips brushing over you, and you whisper against them, repeating Mycroft’s words. _Oh my love._

“Now it smells like you as well. Perfect.” Well, you most certainly can’t, but you’d hand him the world on a silver platter if it would make him happy, so if he wants you to smell of Mycroft, you’ll smell of Mycroft. The remark pleases Mycroft as well, you notice, so you nestle yourself a little tighter against Sherlock to reward him for being kind to his brother.

“Best enjoy it while it lasts. I shudder when I think of the obnoxious fumes of your experiments infusing the fabric. Remember it’s _silk_ , Sherlock. Dry-clean only.”

“Yes, yes. Weren’t you supposed to be in a hurry?”

“I was. I am. Please deign to put on something appropriate for the dinner with Mummy and Daddy next Thursday.”

“Must I? They’re so utterly boring.”

“Yes, you must. Just sit tight, keep your mouth shut and distract yourself with the idea of our private after dinner party.”

“Oh, fine.” Sherlock flips off his brother with a flick of his wrist but Mycroft is having none of it. The two of you are gathered in his arms and pressed against that scrumptious merino wool. You can’t detect any stays beneath it.

“Behave, brother mine.” They kiss, intimately, passionately even, but without the heated frenzy of their earlier embrace. 

“Take care.” A last caress and Mycroft exits the room, leaving the both of you by yourself. Sherlock sighs, staring at the door that has fallen closed behind Mycroft. He lifts his hand and rubs at his nape, rudely intruding on the delightful liaison your collar had begun with the locks of silken hair curling there, but of course you forgive him. The poor thing looks a little lost, if truth be told, so you hug him solidly, ensuring every fibre of yours is wadded against him to let him know he’ll never be alone anymore, for now he’s got you.

***

You quickly discover Sherlock hasn’t been entirely honest with his brother, for a few hours later there is another knock on his door, this one way more impatient than the rap Mycroft gave it.

“Sherlock. Why didn’t you answer my texts?” an anguished voice enquires.

“Bugger off, Lestrade,” Sherlock shouts and hoists you tighter around him as he flings himself onto his other side of the bed, back turned towards the door.

“Sherlock. There’s a woman lying dead. I need your help.”

“No, you don’t. The last time you told me you’d never let me in on a case again.”

“That’s because you were as high as a kite. You promised you’d quit.”

These words cause Sherlock to bolt straight up; the sudden movement puts a serious strain on your seams.

“I _have_ quit, Lestrade. I wasn’t high; I’d merely forgotten to eat for the past three days. I _explained_ , didn’t I? Now pack it. Your stupidity radiates right through the door and it’s putting me off.”

 _Oh, the poor dear._ You don’t know about the stupidity but you can definitely feel the tension that’s tautening Sherlock’s whole frame and you rub against his shoulders to loosen their rigidity, susurrating that it’s all right, he mustn’t let this person upset him so.

Sadly, this Lestrade appears to be one of the persistent kind.

“Sherlock, look. I’m sorry, okay? I give you my sincere apologies for misinterpreting the state you were in and for not believing your explanations at the time. Is that enough of an apology for you, or do you want me to fall on my knees and beg you for forgiveness?”

Now his lips quirk in half a smile and he swings his legs of the bed. You flutter around him in excitement. _Isn’t he adorable?_

“Would you, Lestrade?” he asks and his grin widens.

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock!”

“Oh, fine. You should thank your lucky stars I’m not Pope Gregory VII.” With those words he yanks open the door, nearly causing this Lestrade fellow to fall into the room.

“What are you going on about now?” Lestrade snarls, straightening himself and tugging at the lapels of his coat. You titter at the abominable quality of the ill-fitting piece until you realise the poor thing can’t help it, since it is so badly made, and out of cheap yarns to complete the misery; so you send it your excuses. 

“History, Lestrade. We’re supposed to learn from it. Give me the address and I’ll come as soon as I’m dressed.”

“It’s bloody four thirty in the afternoon.”

“Oh, don’t be dull, or you’ll be giving me a headache,” sighs Sherlock. “Address,” he snaps suddenly.

“67 Fanshaw Street. Shall I wait for you outside then?”

“I’m not going to sit in a police car.”

“Yeah, and why… oh, all right. But hurry, would you? I told Anderson to wait…”

“Yes, yes. Skedaddle, Lestrade. I’ll be right behind you.”

Sherlock practically pushes the man out of the door. Good riddance, you think. What you don’t expect is for Sherlock to shuck you and let you glide unceremoniously onto the bare floorboards. They’re filthy and you shrink back in horror from the dust that immediately begins to sidle into your pores. _Oh, please pick me up again_ , you beg of him, but of course he can’t hear you. Instead, he flits around the room, donning various pieces of clothing, finishing it all by shrugging into a big black coat and pulling up the collar to rest against that glorious nape with its fringe of soft curls you were snuggling against just a minute ago.

You instantly decide you _hate_ that coat.

Next thing you know he’s gone, leaving you prone on the floor to sniffle, helplessly, and mourn what was your delight.

***

You don’t know for how long you’re lying there. It’s dark when Sherlock returns at last, stumbling into the room. _Oh, my poor darling._ He looks so tired. If only he would shed those stupid clothes – that odious coat – and raise you from the floor and allow you to wrap yourself around him. How you would comfort him, rub soothingly against his skin until it tingles with contentment and warmth.

Thankfully, he does know what’s good for him and you both sigh in gratified pleasure when you cuddle closely on the bed together.

***

You’re the one Sherlock favours over all the other clothes he has. You’re the one he returns to time and again. You spend days together, languishing on the bed while he whiles away the hours smoking one cigarette after the other. Their smell permeates your fibres, but you don’t really mind, for the cigarettes are a part of him and anything that is his, is yours.

***

He also wears you when he’s tinkering with his experiments on the little desk beneath the window. The light sparkles from your sleeves as he adjusts the slides under his microscope or pours liquid into one of the test tubes.

One day he’s just added a few drops of a green solution to some crystals on the bottom of the test tube when, out of the blue, you’re both surrounded by huge billowing clouds of blue smoke. It’s a very pretty colour, but the stink nearly suffocates you and Sherlock swears and springs up to throw open the window, coughing and waving his arms wildly. You flap around him, anxious to protect him and drape your sleeve over his nose and mouth when he brings up his hand to swipe at the tears in his eyes. The toxic haze wafts up and out of the room, to mingle with the grey London fog outside the room.

“Jesus,” Sherlock sniffs, before coughing some more. No doubt that’s caused by the cold that’s streaming through the window. You wrap yourself a little tighter around his heaving chest. _Oh, you poor thing. Come here._ He helps you by wrapping his own arms around you both as well and rubbing his hands vigorously up and down along your back. In no time you’re both warm and secure and the terrifying experience is all forgotten.

***

Some days he plays his violin, swaying around the room in time to the music he coaxes out of the instrument. He leads and you dance with him, swirling around his legs, gracefully eddying around them in undulating waves of blue. The light ripples and flows over you and your fabric shines with all the colours of the ocean, of the brightness of day and the darkness of night, and what lies beyond the stars of the universe. 

Perhaps, that’s when you’re the happiest.

***

One day the room is littered with boxes in all sizes and Sherlock is filling them with his books, and his science equipment, his mould collection and his collection of dog hair, the Persian slipper, the stacks of _Guns & Ammo_ magazines and even the skull. Well, you certainly wouldn’t mind never having to look at that horrid thing again. 

Next he rips all his clothes from their hangers and throws them into a box. A vague sense of uneasiness creeps up on you. You notice one set of clothes remains unpacked, together with his scarf and that detestable coat, and you, clinging snugly to his body.

 _Oh, no. No, no, no!_ You shriek in horror when he whisks you off his shoulders and squashes you in the last box that remains with its flaps standing open, right on top of the purple shirt. _Sherlock, dearest_ , you sob.

 _Jesus, would you cut the dramatics?_ the purple shirt rumbles beneath you. _We’re only moving, you stupid_ twat _. There’s no need to go bananas._ Bloody hell.

 _Oh_ , you breathe. _Oh._

Even though the words are rude and unkind, to say the least, they do help you to calm down and you sit tight when the box bumps down the stairs, before being stashed on a flat surface and then carried up another long flights of stairs.

Yet you virtually jump into Sherlock’s hands when the flaps are opened and his lovely face gazes down on you. You’re so relieved to be seeing him once more. You never want to have to experience such agonising uncertainty ever again.

***

By the third time it happens you’ve resigned yourself to the inevitable. That doesn’t mean you have to like it, though.

***

An even more disturbing event is the visit to the dry-cleaners. It begins with you being stuffed into a plastic bag, along with some others. Thankfully, you’re wadded next to the black pincord trousers. The two of you have always got on well enough.

 _Moving again_ , you say, determined not to make such a spectacle of yourself this time and to show you know exactly what’s happening.

 _Err, no. I’m afraid not,_ the trousers answer. _Dry-cleaning._

Well, damn. Something new and you have no idea at all. Seeing as it’s the pincord trousers you deem it’s safe to ask, _Oh, what’s that?_

 _Do you remember the experiment that went all wrong?_

Well, yes, distinctly so. Sherlock had to smoke ten packets of cigarettes to dispel the smell.

 _This is more or less the same, except worse_ , the trousers continue.

 _Oh no!_ you think.

 _He always looks decidedly happy when he comes to collect us after so that makes it endurable._ The pincord trousers are a little bit in love with Sherlock as well, so they’re just as amenable to his whims as you are.

Alas, the pincord trousers didn’t lie when they warned the dry-cleaning would be very unpleasant. The treatment is highly invasive and wholly undignified, attacking the very core of your fibres. It ends with you being covered with plastic – _of all things!_ – and slung on a rack with hundreds of other clothes which are not Sherlock’s. Even hanging from your hook next to that insufferable coat is better than having to endure this.

At long last you hear Sherlock’s voice and your heart falters for a moment, almost making you slide from the cheap plastic hanger you’re suspended on. You’re being folded – carefully this time and put into a big bag, next to the pincord trousers and the white shirt, and the light blue one, and the one with the tiny, silvery stripes. You’re still swaddled in swathes of that horrible plastic but at least you’re on the way home now.

Back in Sherlock’s room you’re set free at last and he presses his face into your folds and inhales deeply. The pleasure of his lips brushing over you sends a veritable transport of delight through your fibres. You rustle seductively against his skin, inducing him to shed his suit and shirt and dress himself in you. To _feel_ you against his skin.

And, oh, don’t you almost die with happiness when he does just that?

***

The box opens and Sherlock plucks you out. You take a good look at this new room. It’s different from the previous ones. There’s no desk and no sink and no hot plate, just a very big bed and a wardrobe and some cupboards. Sherlock dons you and starts unpacking the rest of the box. 

_Is this a good place?_ the pincord trousers ask while Sherlock arranges them over a hanger.

You shrug your shoulders to indicate you don’t know yet.

When he’s finished unpacking he opens the door and steps into a small hallway that opens onto a kitchen on you left. A real kitchen, a whole separate room for his tea kettle and the hot plate to warm his beans in tomato sauce. Except there is no hot plate. And the sink looks different to the ones in his previous rooms as well. The microscope is set up on the table, his science equipment cluttered around it. 

Sherlock takes you through the kitchen into another – larger – room. He shoves aside some of the boxes and falls into a big leather chair standing to the side of an ornate mantelpiece. You take in the place and decide you quite like it here. More space to breathe.

***

“Oh, Sherlock. What a beautiful gown.” You glow with justified pride when you hear the words. They’re emitted by an elderly lady in a purple dress of some polyester material pretending to be a silk-wool blend. Still, she must have taste if she’s noticed you. On the other hand, how could she not. Only this morning, when you caught a sight of the two of you in the huge mirror on the door of the wardrobe, you concluded again what a handsome pair you are. 

“Eh, what?” Sherlock asks, tearing his eyes away from the microscope.

“Your dressing gown,” the lady clarifies. “It’s lovely. How can you sit in it doing those horrible experiments of yours? Some day you’re going to spill something on it and it will be spoiled.”

“I always take extreme care never to _spill anything_ , Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock tells her in a withering tone. She doesn’t flinch but answers mildly, “You have such nice things, Sherlock, and no sense of their value at all.”

“Don’t you have something useful to do? Like clean the bathroom, or something?”

“I’m not your housekeeper, dear. You and Dr Watson can clean your own bathroom, thank you very much.”

You’ve just started wondering who this Dr Watson is when another person enters the kitchen.

“Morning, Mrs Hudson, Sherlock.”

“Morning Dr Watson,” the lady, Mrs Hudson, chimes. “Oh dear, you look like you didn’t catch a wink. I do hope the bed is to your liking.”

“Excellent, Mrs Hudson,” answers Dr Watson, and who is he and what are all these people doing in the place where Sherlock and you live now? And do these people have no sense of fashion at all? That fluffy terrycloth bathrobe Dr Watson is wearing is so not done.

“It was just a bit late by the time I ended up in it,” Dr Watson continues.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a whiner, John.”

“I’m not whining. I was just…”

“Still, it didn’t hurt your leg, Dr Watson. It looks much better to me.”

“Yes, it is, Mrs Hudson. And I’d prefer it if you’d call me John from now on, please.”

Sherlock grips your collar with his fingers, pressing you against his throat and you snuggle up against that smooth pale column protectively. He doesn’t appear to be unhappy, though. More like – overwhelmed, you guess. Obviously he is fond of these persons, not in the way he likes Lestrade, and he doesn’t love them, like Mycroft. But he intends to live with them and you realise from now on it will no longer be just the two of you. You’ll have to get used to these people, even if they dress themselves in silly clothes.

You’re not happy with the situation but there’s nothing you can do about it so you’ll grit your teeth and bear it.

***

One day the situation takes a startling turn for the worse. Amazingly, this detriment is actually Mycroft’s doing. He visits one day when John is at the clinic and Mrs Hudson has gone out for her doily making class. You and Sherlock are sprawled in the chair next to the fire, reading an introduction to astronomy. Mycroft has obviously let himself in with his own key. Both John and Mrs Hudson don’t know he has one, but you do. With John and Mrs Hudson always being around Mycroft visits far less frequently than he did at the previous places, but Sherlock always calls him when he’s certain they’ll have a few hours to themselves.

You’re busy admiring the extremely pretty umbrella Mycroft is carrying today and how perfectly the midnight blue silk and the Malacca cane handle complement the dove-grey, midnight blue pinstripe of his virgin wool with the suit. So it isn’t until Sherlock is lifting the wine-red robe from among the swathes of silky lilac tissue paper that you become aware of your rival. 

“Oh, Mycroft,” Sherlock breathes. Then he smiles and says, “But I already have a dressing gown.”

 _Yes_ , you think. _Yes, yes, yes! Sherlock already has a dressing gown. He has me and he’s mine and he doesn’t need this glaring, useless_ atrocity _. How dare you, Mycroft?_ You’re determined not to admit that the new gown is a lusciously warm, glowing deep red that will add a lovely blush to Sherlock’s pale skin.

“I know,” Mycroft – that despicable traitor – smiles. “But I gave you that one years ago. It’s really past its prime. Why don’t you try on this one? I think that red will add a lovely blush to your skin. The blue pales you a little.”

“All right,” Sherlock gives in, and even though you cling to him with all your might and refuse to let go of him, he sheds you and you end up in an graceless heap on the edge of the chair from which you then – and oh, you could just _die_ from the mortification – proceed to slide, slowly but inevitably down to the floor where you end up in an unattractive pool of wrinkles.

The red robe – a dirty little slut if ever you saw one – smirks down at you from the height of Sherlock’s shoulders around which it is currently ensconced. You look up at Sherlock, begging for him to pay attention to you, but he has eyes for Mycroft only, who’s looking at Sherlock with that gleam in his eye and the slackness to his mouth you recognise all too well. 

Sure enough they set off together in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom, the red robe flaring mockingly and whispering at Mycroft to wind his hand in its sash. You are left behind, huddled on the carpet, and with a fiery blaze of ice raging through your fibres.

***

They stay away for a long, long while and all that time you’re lying there, waiting for them to return, your fibres are being chewed on by the salivating jaws of jealousy. Sobs of despair ripple over your satin stripes. If only you could weep. You long to shed the hot, wet tears that would make less of your grief.

***

When Sherlock and Mycroft enter the room again they both wear the blissful look you know so well on their faces, but Sherlock is not dressed in that red trollop. Instead he bends and lifts you up from the floor.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft tuts reprovingly while you pliantly let yourself be wrapped around Sherlock’s torso. He smells of sex and Mycroft, but of himself most of all, and you hug him so tight you think your seams might burst, but you don’t care, you’re so relieved to feel him inside you again.

“What?” you and Sherlock lift your eyebrows at Mycroft. “I like it.”

“Whatever you wish. Wear the other one every now and then as well, brother mine. I’m certain Mrs Hudson and John will appreciate the variety.”

“They’re not the most astute of observers, Mycroft. Neither of them.”

“Something to be grateful for, I’m sure.” Mycroft retrieves his brolly from its resting place next to John’s chair. “Goodbye, Sherlock dear.” They kiss and you’re pulled close against the dove-grey virgin wool. You watch as their tongues slide around each other with slick, moist sounds. 

Downstairs the front door falls shut and they instantly break their embrace. With a last glance in your direction Mycroft stalks out of the room. Sherlock sighs and turns to lift his violin out of its case. Together you assume your usual position in front of the window and he begins to play.

It’s a sad tune, with long glissandos and sudden dissonances but with each stroke of the bow over the strings your heavy mood is lifted until you’re whirling graciously around his legs once more.

***

Life is far less pleasant, as you now spend quite a lot of time hanging from your hook next to that sleazy red strumpet. Still, Sherlock prefers you over her two times out of three. That’s a kind of consolation, you suppose.

***

One day you’re together in the kitchen, doing experiments. Sherlock is wearing his goggles, which always make you want to giggle a bit because they make him look like a panda bear – a lovely, sartorially elegant panda bear – and a pair of latex gloves. You’ve long since become used to their artificial, industrial smell so you don’t mind them too much. 

“Morning, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson chimes. Sherlock whips up his head, the hand with the test tube jerks and the next second you’re being seared by a red-hot shard of pain, attacking your innards and tearing them asunder.

“Ow, damn,” Sherlock roars and the poor darling is hurt as well, not as bad as you are but still, you flap against him to comfort him. On the other side of the table Mrs Hudson stands petrified one moment, but the next she’s all anguished action. 

“Sherlock, what is it? Take it off. What were you… Oh, best go take a shower to rinse it off and where does John keep the first aid? Do you want me to call John?”

“No,” Sherlock grits between his teeth. You screech in protest when Mrs Hudson plucks at your shoulders to disunite you from Sherlock’s but Sherlock wriggles his shoulders to help her and in an instant he’s standing before her, as naked as the day you first set eyes on him. Mrs Hudson slings you over a chair, not caring where you fall.

“Into the shower with you,” she pushes against his back. “It already looks like a second degree burn. Do you want me to come with you to put on the tabs?”

“No, no, I’ll manage.” You can hear from the tone of his voice that he’s in pain as much as you are. Oh, the poor darling, why don’t they let you pamper and console him? You could comfort each other for you can feel that hole in you widening and growing, gnawing at your fibres and eating them. You’re certain it would hurt less if you could huddle close to Sherlock. 

“Oh dear,” Mrs Hudson is saying. She’s ambling around the kitchen, rearranging things and putting them back again in a distracted manner. She shakes her head and picks up the gloves and drops them in the bin. “That table is really done for now.” Then she wanders over towards you and raises your right front panel, where the pain has grown so much, it’s making you dizzy.

“Oh dear,” she says again before letting it drop. Then she goes to bang on the door to the bathroom. “Are you all right in there, Sherlock? Does the rinsing help?”

“Yes,” he shouts back. “Why don’t you make me some tea, Mrs Hudson?”

She returns to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Then she lifts you from the chair and spreads your front panel over the work top. Air whistles through the gaping hole that’s grown into you, just beneath your pocket. 

“Oh dear.”

Around her you spy the bathroom door being opened and Sherlock emerges with a towel wrapped around his hips.

“How is it, dear?” Mrs Hudson asks, whipping around to look at him and causing you to slither from the top. You’re so disoriented with the flaring agony you hardly even notice.

“A nasty burn, but nothing to get excited about,” Sherlock answers. Indeed, he doesn’t sound like he’s in great pain, it’s obviously not so bad as yours. Your own pain lessens a bit as the realisation he’s not that badly hurt dawns on you.

“I’m afraid your dressing robe is done for, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson says. “I’m so sorry. I know it was your favourite.”

“Yes.” He walks closer and bends over you. You feel the brush of his fingers over your waist as he helps you to rise from the lino. The long, sensitive fingers whose touch has you fluster with the same delight you felt all those years ago, when they first lifted you from among all those layers of precious paper.

“It’s ruined,” he says and you hear the sad note in his voice. “Maybe you can use the fabric for your quilting class, Mrs Hudson. It’s silk.”

His hand trails past you and then he pivots on his heels and marches off towards his bedroom. The lovely long flowing line of his back with the dark curls bouncing on top turns around the corner, and he’s gone.

That’s when you realise you will never see him again. The pain flares through your whole being, ripping the heart out of you and then don’t feel the pain any longer for each of your fibres has wilted and died. You don’t care what happens to you now the light of your life has abandoned you.

“Oh dear.” Mrs Hudson balls you into an indifferent heap of wrinkling fabric and carries you into the hall and down the stairs. With each step taking you further away from Sherlock you feel more of your life fleeting from your fibres. By the time her feet hit the seventeenth step all the lustre has left your body.

In her own kitchen she takes a good look at you in the light streaming through the window.

“Real silk,” she says. “Well, I don’t know what Sherlock was doing up there but you’ve lost all your shine. We could use you to stuff toys, I suppose, but cutting you up would take too much time.”

With those words she balls you tighter, lifts the lid off the bin, and lets you fall onto a mix of yesterday’s coffee grounds and potato peels and this morning’s still wet teabag.


End file.
